


The Pack Survives

by paraflymore



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Post-Canon, jonsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 12:18:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12058854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paraflymore/pseuds/paraflymore
Summary: Jon loved nothing more than the sound of his children as they played together in the courtyard of Winterfell. It was a sound he never thought he would get to hear, and it made the sounds that much sweeter





	The Pack Survives

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoy this little mini series here. I haven't decided how many chapter there will be but it will be at least five right now. I also hope my plot makes sense. I sort of just made everything up about the future of Westeros, like this ideal ending I have cooked up in my head. I hope its not too out of whack and silly but I just wanna imagine a happy ending where all my favorite characters survive. I hope yall enjoy :)

It had been a very long journey. Jon had rode for a fortnight with his men from their journey to the Iron Islands, the signing of a their great peace treaty. He had taken his oldest son, Robb, along with him. The boy had just turned twelve on his last name day. He was nearly a man and Jon wanted him to be ready for his duties when the time ever came.

They had defeated the dead, and when he returned from battle Sansa had told him he was to be a father.

Their marriage, back then had been born from pure political necessity and thirteen years later he still had to catch his breath when he saw her.

They were nearing the gates of Winterfell and he looked over at his son. Robb was a handsome and noble young man. He reminded Jon so much of his fallen brother.

The boy even sounded like him some times, especially when he was laughing. He was a gift from the Gods, this beautiful baby boy with dark eyes and brown hair who some how had always been wiser beyond his years.

“Did you learn anything?” Jon asks, looking out at the view of their home. He imagined his wife waiting there in the main courtyard with their other children anxiously awaiting their return home.

“Yes father,” he begins. “I learned our peace treaty is the most important alliance in all of the kingdoms, and we must all protect it.”

Jon nods proudly. The treaty, written after the great war by Tyrion Lannister and signed by all of the keepers of the kingdoms of Westeros.

They met every few years to discuss and alter the agreement if needed. They met in different places each time.

He had set Robb with the task of meeting with the other Lord's and discussing their plans.

Jon had not been surprised by his son's diligence, he expected the boy to prosper as a leader. He was the future King of the North, a Stark by blood and by name.

“Very good.”

“I also learned not to challenge aunt Arya to a fight,” he chuckles. “my bottom is still sore.”

Jon let out a hardy laugh, remembering his little sister knocking the young boy down within the first five minutes of their mock duel.

“She is a great warrior, your aunt.”

“Aye, she is.” Robb says, his eyes looking towards his home in pride. Jon hoped his children would never know the horrors of loss that their parents knew. “I think Annalyn will fare well as a warrior, she shall be great just like aunt Arya.”

Jon took a deep breath. His daughter, third oldest, first born daughter. She was every bit as fiery as all the Stark women before her.

Sansa had named her for both their mother's and she definitely lived up to it. She had no use for being a Lady, just like Arya. She was only nine years old and trained most days with her older brother's, some times even besting them.

“I think you're right Robb, but I do not think your mother will allow it.”

Both of them exchange a smile and their horses trot onwards, towards home.

 

In the years since the war things had changed in Westeros. The war had left King's Landing in shambles. The city burned, but not before it fell.

Cersei Lannister was defeated as the Night King and his army marched into the capitol, but she did not fall by the hands of the dead.

It was Jaime Lannister, who stabbed her through the heart he whispered something to her as she lay dying, words Jon never got to hear because in the next moments they were fighting the dead.

It was a long battle, it seemed to last days.

He barely made it out alive.

Somehow Jon managed to hold onto a handful of his people. The King Slayer had become a trusted ally in the time before this great battle, along with his sell sword Bronn. 

Daenerys had given Bronn the Reach as a thanks for his efforts in the war and he ruled their now with his fruitful wife. They had talked about uniting their houses. Bronn had been drinking sweet red wine when he gave him the line. “You have a daughter, I have a son.”

Jon had dismissed him quickly. “Our children are still babes, let this be a discussion we have at the next peace treaty signing.”

He feared this most about having daughters, one day knowing he would have to give them away to a husband.

The gates of Winterfell creaked open slowly and Jon could hear a small voice over all the rest in the chorus of cheers that greeted them as they trotted through.

His youngest daughter, Brynna. His red haired beauty. The little cherub took the ‘kissed by fire' analogy to another level completely. She was wild and strong willed and loud.

“Poppa,” she exclaimed, hopping from Brienne’s arms to greet him as he dismounted his horse.

She was four years old and managed to have a personality as big as the castle she was born in. She leapt into his arms, her little hands pulling on his leather jerkin to get closer and hold on as tightly as she could.

“I missed you so, so much.” She tells him, her voice muffled against his chest.

“I missed you more princess.”

Another pair of arms wrapped around his leg.

“Did you bring me anything?” he asks, his little voice squeaking from somewhere by his thigh.

Jon laughed and his wife waddled over to them, she was with their eighth child, soon they would have seven little Starks running rampant in Winterfell.

“Benjen.” Sansa scolds, her eyes narrowing at her wild son. She held little Ned's hand, he was at her side most of the time, especially since she become pregnant again. “It is not polite to ask such things.”

Ned was a quiet boy, thoughtful and sweet. He was different than his brother's where he preferred learning from the Maester and his uncle Sam. He like his namesake was also an honest and noble lad, even at the tender age of seven.

Jon ruffled Benjen’s dark curls, bending down to be eye level with his son. Ned's long strawberry blond hair was pulled back today, and his dark eyes were serious. Jon planted a kiss on his forehead and smiled at him.

“You have grown a foot since I left boy.”

He smiles cheekily. “Have I?”

Jon nods. The boy was small for his age, he looked no more than five in his small stature.

He rose up, kissing Sansa on the cheek. His free hand caressing her jutting stomach. “How are you feeling?”

“I'm well.” She tells him, eyes giving her away.

“I told her she should be resting.” Ned piped in from below them. He was quite serious for a boy his age.

“She wanted to be the first to kiss you,” Brynna explained, “but I was first.”

Sansa pokes playfully at the little girls stomach. “Aye, tell you poppa what you did yesterday, sweetling.”

Brynna's face turns innocent and she looks at her mother with a cheeky smile. “I don't remember.”

“Aye, the chickens surely remember.” Annalyn says with a wide smirk. She had been talking excitedly with her older brother about his trip and just now offered him a peck on the cheek. “I was still picking feather's from my hair this morning.” Jon affectionately brushed her cornflower blond hair back and smiled at her. She would be a great beauty, just like her mother.

The two little boys snicker below him and Jon cracks a smile that sends his wife fuming.

“Do not laugh at her Jon, the entire courtyard was full of squawking chickens, it was pandemonium.”

Jon turns his eyes to his baby girl and she was pouting, her dark eyes on full force and he could not find it in himself to become angry with her.

“They wanted to play with me poppa,” she told him, her voice small and meek. She was really laying the innocent act on thickly for him. 

“Aye, did they tell you this, sweetling?”

“Yes, they did.” She tells him, a nod of her head sends her hair into her eyes. Jon kissed her on the cheek, and sat her down on the ground with her brothers and patted her bottom. “Run along so I can kiss your momma now.” The little chorus of laughter echoed through the yard and Brienne and Podrick followed the little ones as they ran off.

“is he still upset with me?” Jon asks, eyes surveying the courtyard for his only absent child. His second oldest son, Rickon. The young boy had been hurt when Jon told them he would be taking Robb with him this year.

Sansa nods, her eyes searching his. “Be kind to him Jon, he is just a boy.”

He kisses her quickly. “Aye, I will be.” He turns to look at Robb. “You and your sister help your mother to bed.”

“Yes father.” He says, handing the reins of his horse over to the stable boy with a grin. Robb was kind to everyone he met, he would make a great leader.

Annalyn grabbed his arm and tugged it to gain his attention. “He's in the crypts.” She tells him sweetly.

He smiled, cupping her chin in his hand. “Thank you, my darling girl.”

She smiled up at him, her eyes were dark like his, but in the right light they looked greenish. They had been worried when she was born with light hair, the Targaryen side of himself rearing its ugly head. He worried often that she would be shunned, but he seemed to be the only one affected. She runs to help her mother and brother and Jon heads towards the crypts.

His second born son had come into this world a fighter. The little one was born sickly, and they worried for quite some time that he would not make it. But he was strong. He made it through that rough patch, only to be thrust into yet another. When he was two he fell sick with the pox, his fever burned through his small frail body, and again they prepared themselves to lose him yet again.

The fever did break, and he was playing with his older brother in no time at all.  
But they discovered fairly quickly that the virus had not left him unharmed. 

Jon can still see the Maester's face when he told him of his son's affliction. _“He will be almost completely normal, other than he can't hear out of his left ear.”_

Jon had been devastated, but he reminded himself that at least his son was alive. That he could still laugh and play and grow up.

He was always thankful for that.

He can see him there, standing next to the direwolf he loved so much. Ghost had a bond with all of his children, but he sensed that Rickon needed him the most. He stuck by him an ever present companion.

It is the wolf that greets him first. A warm muzzle on his hand and Jon slides his other hand through his white fur.

“Rickon.” He says, and the little boy does not move from his spot, staring up at his grandfather's statue. Jon repeats the boy’s name, this time a little louder.

“I _can_ hear you.” He says, his jaw clenched tightly. 

“Aye, you're still angry with me then?”

He finally looks at him, his eyes were blue with flecks of gold and green but in the darkness of the crypts they were as dark as his own. 

“You know I needed someone to watch out for your mother,”

“Brienne was here and the castle is full of people who can protect mother.” He frowns, eyes going back to look up at the statue. “I will never be as good as Robb,”

“Rickon.”

“Its true father.” He sighs. “I can never truly be a king, not like you or Robb.”

Jon steps closer, and Ghost follows him, easing next to the young boys side. He was so much like himself. Stubborn, brooding and sad. He was a mirror in Jon's eyes of the lost bastard he had been his entire life.  
But his son was a true born Stark, he would inherit and rule the Riverlands when he came of age

“I am only a King by your mother,” he tells him. His eyes tracing over the statue slowly.

When he first came back home, back to Winterfell, he found himself down here in the dark talking to the shadows, asking his father to forgive him for everything. Mostly for loving Sansa the way he did. Jon was tormented back then, a man of two minds. He wanted to protect his sister and at the same time he wanted to bed her, to make her his wife.

He hated the feelings of guilt, they some times still crept into his mind forever haunting him like ghosts. “and you, you my dear boy are set to rule the Riverlands, as your great-grandfather did before you.” He touches his shoulder. “You will be a great Lord my son.”

He nods. “I do not wish to live in the Riverlands father. I want to be in the North with my family.”

“Aye, my son.” He knew this longing to be in the North, he knew it very well. It almost cost him everything when he'd told Daenerys of his plan to stay in Winterfell and rule alongside Sansa. “If you do not wish to rule in the Riverlands, perhaps we will give it to your sister, she would enjoy the title I think.”

Rickon sighed. “I do not wish to renounce my title father.”

Jon squeezes his shoulder. “I know you think I am unfair, leaving you here while Robb and I went to Pyke. One day you will make the journey with us my son. I swear it.”

Rickon nods, looking up at him slowly. “Will I have to call Robb Your Grace?” he asks.

Jon chuckles. “Only when other people are around, I'm sure when its just the two of you he'd quite like it if you called him King Turd.”  
This makes the boy laugh. The names he and Robb had given each other not so long ago during a mock duel for an imaginary princess' hand. Rickon had shouted _“I shall vanquish you King Turd!”_ it was so loud that the entire courtyard stopped. Some of then laughed, like Tormund who had been playing with little Brynna at the time, tossong her up in the air, he had whooped so loud that Sansa smacked him in the back of the head. With a stern look on her face.

He recalls the memory with fondness, and looks away from the statue of his surrogate father towards his son.

Jon ruffles his hair, “come on little Lord, your mother wants us all to feast together.”  
He wraps his arms around his waist burying his face against the leather jerkin, squeezing him tightly. 

“I am glad you're back father.”

“Aye, me too my son.” He says, lips pressed to the top of his head. “me too.”

 

 


End file.
